Moments of Progress
by Hank's Lady
Summary: Two killers with only revenge to live for after each of their hearts has been broken. Can they help each other, or is there no hope for either of them? Sheldon Sands/El Mariachi
1. Chapter 1

**A/N This is a two-chapter short story following on from the events in the movie with one or two changes. I wrote it a good few years ago and decided to dust it off and bring it out so hopefully it'll be enjoyed. Rated for M/M sex in the second part. **

Part One

A MOMENT OF WEAKNESS

**El's POV**

Sands had taken to wandering about at night the week before. I assumed it was so he would remain largely invisible and would be able to find his way around the town without drawing any unwanted attention to himself. From the talk I had heard on the streets and in the bars, most people assumed he had been on killed on the Day of the Dead and he wanted it to remain that way, at least for the present.

How we had ended up together was an obscure twist of fate. The boy had come to find me, taken me to where Sands leaned against a crumbling wall, bleeding from gunshot wounds in both legs, another above the elbow, dried blood on his face from where his eyes had been drilled out. He still held a gun in each hand, alert to every sound, but how he stayed on his feet was a mystery to me; until I got to know him better and learned that he refused to let anything affect his ability to kill – even agonising wounds and blood loss.

The boy had called out to him as we approached, announcing the arrival of 'El Mariachi'. Sands had turned his head to the side and spat into the dust, which indicated exactly what he thought of the boy's choice of help. However, he wasn't in any position to refuse it. He allowed himself to be assisted to the boy's home where his parents tended to the gunshot wounds, afraid to say no, and I hovered, wondering how I had got myself into this and realising that bizarrely, I didn't want him to die. Probably because he reminded me of myself. Tough, strong, impenetrable, dangerous.

Some days later, healing fast and becoming more ill-tempered, Sands enlisted my help to find the remaining members of the Barillo Cartel and kill them. I was reluctant at first, but in the end I had nothing better to do and I had my own reasons for wanting them dead. So for the past few weeks we had travelled around from town to town, Sands staying mostly out of sight while I frequented bars, listened and slowly caught up with the wanted men. We stayed in poor hotels, sharing a room, Sands forced to rely on me to announce the layout of the furniture, to order in food, to drive the car to the next destination. He hated relying on anyone, but seemed to tell himself he was in charge of me and by this method, accepted my help.

Tonight Sands left the hotel as usual around midnight, but by half past he was back. A storm had broken, thunder and lightning crashing down from the skies and when I looked out of the window, I saw Sands stumbling back towards the hotel almost at a run, arms outstretched to save himself if he tripped in his haste, for the first time looking flustered, unsure of his direction. I restrained myself from running down to open the door and calling to him. He would hate that. I sat down on one of the chairs in the room and simply waited.

Some minutes later I heard footfalls on the stairs and Sands came in, dripping, and sank into the armchair inside the door.

"You are soaked," I pointed out.

"You don't say." His voice dripped with sarcasm as his body dripped with rain. He pulled out his cigarettes, fumbled one from the packet and cursed as he discovered it and the others to be sodden. He tossed the pack onto the floor in disgust.

"You should get out of those wet clothes before you come down with pneumonia."

"When you've finished stating the obvious, you could make me some coffee," Sands said through his teeth. I wondered if he was clenching them to stop them chattering. He stood up, limped into the bathroom and closed the door.

I picked up the kettle from the corner unit, checked the water level and plugged it in. I made coffee, drank it. Kicked off my boots and lay on top of the bed covers. Sands eventually emerged from the bathroom half an hour later, unusually for him, clad only in a pair of grey cotton shorts with innocuous looking yellow smiley faces on them. I felt my lips stretch into a smile and wondered if he'd obtained them before or after he lost his eyes. Before probably. Sometimes he had the strangest dress sense. That 'I'm With Stupid' shirt he wore regularly had me baffled.

Now he made his way around to the far side of the bed and lay down with his back to the wall, his hand tucked under the pillow and no doubt resting on the handgun hidden there.

"You still want coffee?" I asked.

"No."

Soon he slept. I lay awake in the darkness for some time, but eventually I slept too. When I woke, Sands was in the throes of a nightmare. He jerked me from my sleep by smashing his hand down on my forehead and thinking he was attacking me, I grabbed for my gun. But then I realised he was simply thrashing about in his sleep. His breath was coming in harsh gasps and whimpers like that of a wounded animal. I reached out and shook him.

"Sands!"

He froze and apparently woke. His permanent dark glasses had become dislodged in his nocturnal fight and I found myself staring into the hollow sockets where his eyes had once been. He immediately lashed out again, disorientated by the dream. I raised my hand to prevent his fist landing on my nose and grasped both his wrists to stop him causing any further damage. He struggled with amazing strength, but I held on.

"Fucking let go!" he cried. His voice was more of a squawk and his breath caught in his throat. His whole body was rigid and shuddering. I was astounded to realise he was terrified. For Sands to lose even a margin of control of himself was unheard of.

"Sheldon, it's me," I said. I'd never used his first name before. I only knew what it was because I'd seen his CIA badge. I'd never told him my own and he'd never asked; he just called me 'El' which was pretty ridiculous when you thought about it.

Now hearing his Christian name had the desired effect, shocking the fight out of him. He lay still, locked muscles twitching, breathing hard, trying to control his sounds of fear. I slowly released his wrists and leaned across him with one arm to snare his dark glasses from the pillow behind him. His hands instantly flew up in front of his face as if to ward off a blow he couldn't see.

"Your glasses," I said, putting them into his hand. He lowered his arms again for a moment, replaced the glasses over his eye sockets, his hands shaking. Then he clenched his fists and I knew he was angry at his own weakness.

I withdrew a few inches and lay watching him. Much to my surprise, one of his fists uncurled and his hand snaked out suddenly across the mattress, encountered my arm and fastened tight around my wrist. His fingers sank into my flesh like claws, gripping tight and still trembling. What it must have cost him to reach out like that. I covered his white fingers with my free hand, carefully pried them off my arm and held his hand.

"Do something for me," he said after a minute.

"Yes."

"Don't ever throw this back in my face. Or I'll shoot you."

"I wouldn't do that."

He gave an almost imperceptible nod as if he trusted that I would do as I said. I would never have dreamed of holding his fear against him; I had enough pain and fear of my own. So far it hadn't emerged in my dreams. although the long months hadn't lessened it any. An image of Carolina and my baby girl lying side by side in the dirt, bleeding, came to mind and I pushed it aside again the same way I always did. Maybe when every last one of Barillo's men was gone, I would feel some kind of relief, or maybe it would take something else.

A moment later I felt his hand relax in mine. Then he pulled it free, slid closer and dropped his head against my shoulder. I lifted my hand and rested it on his upper arm. He flinched, but then relaxed again. I knew how he hated to be touched. Even the most casual brush of fingers together when handing over a plate of food or a gun would rile him. I risked moving my hand a couple of inches down his arm and he didn't move. I slid my arm slowly around him and felt his muscles start to bunch up again, but he didn't jerk away or punch me. He forced himself to let go of his tension again and then was resting calmly in my arms, his face against my neck.

The dark glasses were digging into my flesh and I moved slowly, removing them from his face again. At once his hand came up in front of his face, but then he let it fall back against my chest and he was calm again. I put the glasses on the bed table.

Eventually Sands slept again. Completely vulnerable, unarmed, eye sockets uncovered, he slept in my arms. For one brief moment in time, he needed me and somehow it helped me too, just a little.


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two

A MOMENT OF PASSION

**El's POV**

When I woke some hours later, Sands still lay in my arms, his body curled against mine, his forehead resting on my shoulder. He breathed evenly and deeply and I didn't move. I knew that if he woke now, he would be enraged that he had allowed me to see his vulnerability.

A sound outside disturbed him eventually. He sighed deeply, rolled over in his sleep, turning away from me and then settled again, his face in the pillow. I took the opportunity to rise and head to the bathroom for a shower. When I emerged, fresh and dressed in clean clothes, Sands was still sleeping. I slipped out of the room and fetched bagels and better coffee than I could make from the cheap jar of granules in the hotel room.

I set the breakfast on the corner unit and sat down on the nearby chair. Sands was still oblivious, but after a moment he stirred, touched his face and scrabbled for the dark glasses, putting them on quickly and then sitting up.

"Coffee?" I offered.

"Yeah." I put one of the paper cups and a bagel on the bed table and went back to sit in the corner. Sands sipped the coffee, then found the food and began to eat hungrily. Neither of us mentioned the night's events.

The day passed as it usually did. It was one of the larger towns we had stayed in so we stayed longer, me going from one place to another, listening, picking things up. When I returned to the hotel I took food and we ate before I reported what I'd learned. Later Sands went out as he always did. This time he was gone a long time and I went to bed, sleeping in my clothes as usual, a gun on the bed table and another under the pillow.

I woke hearing Sands coming up the wooden stairs outside, letting himself into the room, using the bathroom. I lay still, breathing evenly, but I guessed he would probably know I was awake. When he came into the room he said nothing. He took off his shoes and tucked them neatly under the bottom of the bed so he wouldn't fall over them, took his jacket off and hung it on the bedpost, then slid into the bed nearest the wall. To my surprise he lay with his back to me, facing the wall, and edged backwards until his body rested against mine. He bent his knees up slightly, allowing us to fit together perfectly. I hesitated for several moments before I moved and folded my arms around him. I did it slowly, but he still froze against me, his muscles bunched and rigid, hating to be touched, but forcing himself to endure it. Then gradually he relaxed, allowing himself to be held.

We slept and when I opened my eyes it was still dark. Sands was warm in my arms, his breathing soft and even. This was no indication of whether he was asleep or not; he had always been good at disguising it. I realised I was rock hard and despite the jeans we both wore, he must have been able to feel it if he were awake. I was molded tight to him.

He moved his head then, swallowed, and I knew he was conscious. I didn't know whether to let go and turn away or stay as I was, but then he moved against me, the tiniest hint of a rub against my body, settling himself closer, nudging me. I could feel his heart thudding evenly under my hand. I raised my other hand, the one draped over him, and slowly stroked his hair off his neck, then placed my mouth there, touching softly, feeling the pulse below his ear jump under the brush of my lips. His heart skipped quicker under my hand and I sank my teeth in, just a little, nipping warm flesh.

Sands' breath hissed in slowly between his teeth and he shifted against me, almost writhing. When I lowered my hand to his stomach the muscles clenched under my touch. I hesitated again, but he covered my hand with his own, pressed it lower until I cupped the pulsing erection trying to escape from the restraints of his jeans. I rubbed slowly, drawing another hiss of breath from Sands. Then he pushed his hand between my palm and his body, unbuckling and unzipping with sudden haste, pulling himself free of his clothing, thrusting his warm hardness into my hand. I wrapped my fingers around him, stroking, squeezing, feeling him shiver under my touch, his head tilting back against my shoulder, his back arching.

It didn't occur to me to protest. This wasn't something I'd done before or even thought about, but somehow I wanted it. Maybe it had been too long; maybe he needed me or I needed him. I was unsure, but at that moment it felt right and I continued to touch him, faster, more firmly, almost holding my breath.

He came in mere minutes, hot and sticky on my fingers. I let go quickly, wiped my hand on the bed sheet and closed my arms around him again, pressing my mouth onto his neck. He lay still, letting me hold him, his breath fast and uneven, gradually slowing again. Then he dislodged my arms and rolled over, facing me. He still wore the dark glasses and I realised he must have slept in them as usual. Saying nothing, he began to loosen my clothing; unfastening my shirt, pulling it free from my jeans, running warm hands over my chest and stomach, making the ache between my legs more insistent. I bit my lip, closing my eyes, letting him touch. His hands reached my belt buckle, deftly unfastened it, unzipped my jeans, reached inside. I couldn't suppress a groan when his hand closed around me, pulling me free of my underwear, and I heard a quick breath released in amusement.

"Been a long time, has it, El?" he said. I could hear the grin without opening my eyes to see it.

"Too long," I breathed. He had both hands on me now - one grasping my erection, rubbing, stroking, squeezing; the other cupped under my balls, caressing. I didn't even last as long as he had, spurting almost violently, gasping aloud. He withdrew his hands and sat up and I opened my eyes to look at him. I wanted to pull him down again, hold him, but I knew he wouldn't appreciate it now. What happened between us was done. Until next time. Instead I tucked myself back into my clothes, fastening zips and buttons, and then relaxed into a deep sleep. I didn't know if Sands slept or sat awake for the rest of the night.

A week later, a new town, a new hotel. Sands had been distant, avoiding any further closeness and a tiny part of me was disappointed, wanting to touch and be touched. But as usual he was flinching away whenever he sensed me getting too close and I didn't reach out to him.

I entered the hotel room, described it to Sands while he stood at the door, taking in what I said and then making his way confidently in, put down his bag where he wouldn't trip over it, sat down in a chair, asked me to make coffee.

That night we drew closer again. He went out after dark, but didn't go much further than the town square, feeling his way in unfamiliar surroundings. When he came into the room I was in bed, but not sleeping. He moved around the room, took off his shoes, went into the bathroom. I heard the shower running. When he came back into the room he wore nothing but shorts, blue this time with red lip patterns here and there. He slid into the bed, his back to me, pressing close almost immediately. He was tense, still disliking contact, but at the same time asking for it. I slid my hands down his body and found him already hard and throbbing. I touched, explored and for several moments he squirmed under my hands and under the feel of my mouth on his neck, but then he pushed my hands away and turned to face me.

"Little overdressed, aren't you, El?" he said teasingly. He never ceased to surprise me.

"Feeling at a disadvantage?" I quipped, brushing my hand across his naked chest.

He moved fast, knocking my hand away and rising suddenly, pushing me down hard on my back, sliding one leg over me, kneeling, gripping my wrists and pushing them back into the pillow either side of my head. His body brushed mine, his thighs gripped tight around my hips.

"You're the one at a disadvantage," he said. His hands loosened on my wrists and I raised a hand, resting it on his thigh, stroking lightly. Then I grasped his waist, pulled him off me and down onto the mattress beside me. I didn't stop to think whether it would earn me a punch or worse. I kissed him, hard, full on the mouth, gripping him firmly and thrusting my tongue in. His lips parted and his response was instant, but then it was withdrawn as swiftly as it was given and he jerked his head to the side.

"Don't," he said softly. It sounded like a plea and he was shivering. I held him and he let me.

"What do you want from this?" I asked.

"I don't know. Relief. Pleasure." He sounded uncertain, but his body felt sure. Every movement of my hand on him brought a responsive squirm or shiver and I ran my hands over his back, his shoulders, his buttocks, teasing, squeezing, making him press himself against me. Then I pulled back. He tensed, listening, but when he heard my clothing rustling, unsnapping, unzipping, he relaxed and a small smile touched his lips. When I got back on the bed, he reached for me, slid underneath me, his legs parting and his hands drawing me down onto him. I could feel his erection pulsing against mine, separated only by the thin fabric of his shorts. I had removed mine along with the rest of my clothes. He stuck his fingers into his mouth briefly, then his hand slid down my back to my buttocks.

"Eager, aren't we?" he said. He stroked between my buttocks, probing, one moistened finger entering slowly. I bit my lip on a gasp.

"You like?"

"Mmmm," was about all I could manage, with his finger in my ass, my cock pressed between his legs.

"Do that to me."

I propped myself up a little, my hand between us, but then Sands pulled back, halting his touching, pushing me off. I hesitated, but he merely took a moment to pull his shorts off before he lay down again, his legs spread. I touched and explored, stroking my hands over his body, my mouth teasing his neck and chest. At first he flinched and stiffened at almost every touch, every time my hands strayed somewhere new, but he didn't stop me. It was as if he was having some internal fight with himself - part of him longing for this, the other part still hating the contact, fearing pain instead of pleasure. But eventually the tension eased away and he was just enjoying it.

My hands moved lower, one grasping his erection, sliding up and down the shaft, drawing a sudden gasp from him. The fingers of my other hand slid under him, in him. He stopped me again, pushing my hands off, wet his hand with his own tongue and slicked the spit onto my throbbing penis. Then he was guiding it, pulling me onto him, into him. I pushed forward, feeling the delicious heat and tightness of him as his muscles gripped me. His breath hissed out between his teeth and I looked at his face for any sign of pain, noticing his clenched teeth. I held still and raised my hand to take his dark glasses off.

"No," he said at once.

"Yes." I put them on the bed table, cupped his face in my hands. This time when I kissed him, after a second of resistance, he let me. His tongue thrust eagerly against mine, back into my mouth, his lips hot and wet and clinging, small whimpers escaping him as our bodies thrust together, harder and faster. I drew my mouth away from his, needing to breathe, sliding the fingers of one hand into his hair, the other under his buttocks, pulling him tighter up against me as I pounded my hips forward. His neck arched back and he writhed, groaning, letting his control slip as he reached a shuddering orgasm along with mine.

I slid sideways off him, turning him over with me, holding him close, my face in his neck. He didn't try to pull away as I might have expected, but lay supple and relaxed in my arms, one leg still hooked over mine, his chest rising and falling as his breathing slowed. I reached down and pulled a sheet over us and then I was falling into sleep.

When I woke it was daylight and Sands was still molded to me, his breath fanning my throat, one arm loosely resting around my waist. I looked at him, waiting for him to wake, this time not slipping away from him. He stirred after a few moments and stretched against me. He stiffened a little, but only a little. Then the tension left him again. He slowly pulled free of me and sat up.

"Fuck, I need a shower," he said, shuddering. "Worst thing about sex." He got up, went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, leaving the door open for the first time. I didn't know if this was an invitation to follow or simple casualness so I stayed where I was. This was apparently the right thing to do as he emerged fifteen minutes later, clean, wet-haired, wearing fresh shorts and dark glasses.

"Your turn," he said.

When I came out of the bathroom, Sands was fully dressed. He behaved as he usually behaved - a little distant, a little sarcastic, but somehow less hostile towards me, but other than the crack about the shower he made no other reference to what had happened between us and nor did I.

We moved on to another new town that day and wound up in one of our usual cheap hotels for the night. I fetched in Puerco Pibil for dinner, Sands' favourite meal, and we ate in silence. He remained a little distant all evening and went to bed in his clothes. I shrugged and followed suit. I had hardly expected a complete change in him. In truth I would have been a little unnerved if he suddenly turned into my lover every night, although I had picked up a bottle of lube earlier, just in case, to make it easier for him if it happened again. This wasn't exactly something I'd fantasised about. What happened with him had seemed to be more about comfort and release than desire and it had actually been longer for me than for him - I hadn't so much as looked at a woman since Carolina was killed. My own hands had sufficed when longing filled me.

I lay awake for some time, thinking. The months with Sands as a companion had begun to take a toll on my sanity, but at the same time I had begun to care about him in some strange way. Despite his temper, his spite, his often sour disposition and constant snapping at me, underneath it all he had just been scared and mostly I had overlooked his vileness.

I knew what it was all about really, even though nothing had been said. In the beginning he had nightmares; terrible violent dreams where he tossed and thrashed about, often crying out or muttering in terror. He had been caught like a fish on a hook my Ajedrez, thought she was on his side, thought she wanted him, even loved him. He hadn't known she was Barillo's daughter - no one had. She stood watching while they drilled his eyes out and she went out into the square with the intention of killing him, even though he was already bleeding to death from the eye sockets and three gunshot wounds. Luckily he got his shot in first, but the whole thing had sent his already slightly insane mind into overdrive. That was why he hated being near anyone, hated being touched. He had trusted her, slept with her, probably gave her more of himself than anyone else, and she did that to him. Now he couldn't even see what was coming and had to rely on his other senses - and me.

My thoughts turned to the past week, how Sands had eventually turned to me for comfort and then something more. Would I really want a repeat performance? I realised I was getting hard as I remembered the feel of his hands on me, the feel of his body under mine, the moment when he stopped fighting everything and kissed me back. Yes, I'd want a repeat performance. I smiled wryly to myself in the darkness. Who'd have thought I would have ended up here?

I must have fallen asleep eventually and when I woke, Sands was sitting upright next to me, leaning against the wall, apparently waiting for me to wake up. It was still dark.

"Can't sleep?" I said.

He shrugged.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Stuff."

I wondered if he had been thinking about the same stuff I had. I rubbed my eyes, glanced down in the half light from the moon, noticed the bulge in his pants. He would never ask. Not like this. I knew him too well now, which was something of an alarming thought.

I rested my hand on his knee, moved my fingers just slightly.

"Don't ever get to thinking it's here on a plate whenever you're in the mood," Sands said gruffly. I couldn't stop myself grinning. If he wanted to think he was doing me a favour, I'd go along with that. I leaned over and brushed my lips against the corner of his mouth, amused when his twitched up into a small smile.

"I wouldn't dare," I said.


End file.
